


don't come looking

by karnaca (orphan_account)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: AU - Vladimir lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, MY DENIAL IS STRONG, Mattimir, post-Season 1, rating could go up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/karnaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vladimir. He shouldn’t have a heartbeat at all, because he’s dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I have NO IDEA where this is going, but damn, I wanted to write at least something for these two.

Dog barking across the street. Puddle a couple feet away, better not step there. Car behind him honking distantly. Paper man by the subway on the right.

Matt taps his cane on the ground, taking his usual morning route to the firm. It had been three weeks since he saw to Fisk behind bars, three weeks since he donned the red outfit, three weeks since the media (or Brett, probably Brett) had given him the name Daredevil. There was still crime on the streets, Hell’s Kitchen was still generally a shitty place to be, but it felt like his. Every night he goes out beating the fear of God into criminals. Sure, he gets a little roughed up every now and then, but it’s not terrible enough for him to bother Claire, and he sleeps like a baby at night.

He steps over the puddle with a small smile playing on his lips. He wonders what the world will throw at Nelson and Murdock today. Nothing they can’t handle.

Things had gotten better with Foggy as well. He still looks at Matt with worry when he comes to work with a bruise on his face, but it’s much better than the look of disdain he used to get when he mentioned his night activities. They were best friends again, and that’s what mattered the most.

The morning crowd on the streets blur into a symphony of heartbeats, merely pinpointing where they are so Matt won’t bump into them. The firm was only a block away now. He focuses his hearing on the building, seeking out Foggy and Karen. They’re laughing about the haywire copy machine. Just another day.

And then he hears it. The impossible. Not a voice, no, the man isn’t speaking. It’s his heartbeat. A heartbeat Matt barely recognizes, because this one sounds like it isn’t trying to cope with a bullet and bleeding out. This one sounds healthy.

Vladimir. He shouldn’t have a heartbeat at all, because he’s dead.

Matt stops in the middle of the sidewalk, several people pushing past him and stumbling on an insult when they see that he’s blind. He turns to face the diner Vladimir entered. That can’t be him. He could be mistaking him for someone else, surely.

Matt swears under his breath and starts toward the diner. Vladimir is by the counter. Matt hastily takes an empty booth behind him. Vladimir hasn’t said a single word yet. Until he hears his voice Matt can’t be sure that it’s him. All he needs is a different voice, and he’ll be on his way knowing that he hasn’t left any loose ends.

“Can I get you something?” The waitress’ smiling voice startles him slightly, he’s too far into his own thoughts.

“Uh, coffee. Black. Thanks,” Matt says softly, mentally chastising himself. _Stay alert_.

Vladimir’s heartbeat spikes slightly. He hears him shift in his seat. Vladimir doesn’t move for a few seconds and Matt realizes that he’s probably looking right at him. Matt quickly ducks his head.

He hears him move again, he’s closer now. The next thing Matt knows is that the seat across him in the booth is occupied by a man he thought was dead. _Vladimir is dead. There’s no way he could have survived._

“Very subtle,” a familiar Russian accent says, “Sitting in the booth behind the man you are following.”

The sarcasm is the confirmation Matt was hoping he wouldn’t find. It really is that Russian asshole he left for dead.

Matt shifts in his seat awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re — “

“Bullshit, your voice is not one to forget, Man in Mask.”

“I don’t —“

“Same with your mouth,” Matt hears Vladimir tap his head, “cannot forget.”

“Be quiet,” Matt snaps in a hushed tone. If Vladimir keeps running his mouth, the whole diner might as well know him as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“So it is you,” Vladimir says, quieter now, smugness dripping off every word. “Don’t worry, I will not go running to the newspapers with your secret.”

Matt leans in, dropping his voice even lower so that no one beyond the booth can hear him. “How are you still alive?”

“Doctors,” shrugs Vladimir. Clearly, he wasn’t up for sharing at the moment.

“I should turn you in to the police,” Matt starts.

“I’m not doing anything bad anymore.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you worked for Fisk.”

“Your real problem, _Daredevil_ ,” Vladimir says through gritted teeth, “is already behind bars. Too bad he’s alive. You should have killed him. My own business is nothing to you now. I have done nothing since the night of the explosion.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“This is only the third time I have been out of my safehouse. Healing is… slow.” Vladimir murmurs. “Even if I wanted to work again…”

The light footsteps of his waitress approach, along with the smell of coffee. “Here’s your drink.”

“Thanks,” Matt smiles briefly in the waitress’ direction. He turns to Vladimir and slides the coffee over to him.

He can feel Vladimir’s stare on him. Confusion, probably. Matt starts to shuffle out of the booth. “Enjoy your coffee. And if I see you out at night, doing what you used to, our next meeting won’t be as civil as this.”

As he walks out of the diner his phone begins to buzz, “FOGGY. FOGGY. FOGGY. FOGGY.” He’s late for work and he knows it. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he hears say something to himself in Russian and then calls the waitress for the bill.

Matt hopes he won’t meet Vladimir again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He examines the man’s new body armor, impressed. “New suit. Looks good.”

Vladimir sits in some generic-model car, bought to blend in. The alley is hardly lit, and Vladimir can’t help but feel… lost. What does he do now, without is brother? Returning to Moscow would be useless. There is still more for Vladimir in America than there is there. Fisk is behind bars, yes, but that man is still powerful. Vladimir knows it won’t be long before that asshole finds his way out.

And when he does, Vladimir will be waiting for him. With the dullest knife to tear slowly and painfully into that monster’s face. He will get his payback. He will see Fisk dead.

Hopefully Vladimir’s gotten the masked man as an ally by then. It would be much easier without  Daredevil in his way. _Daredevil_. What a pathetic name. He is just a man, he bleeds like one all the same, yet the tabloids paint him as something more.

The car door creaks — groans, more like it — as he steps out into the alley. The only sound accompanying him is the sound of his shoes tapping cement as he moves to sit on the hood of the car. He’s never going to get the vigilante’s attention this way.

His phone rings in his pocket. If he wanted Daredevil on his side, he would have to start now. It was going to be difficult to earn that man’s trust.

The screen reads ‘VC.’ He sighs, wondering if he should just ignore the call. But his little concern for his own well-being gets the better of him.

“What,” Vladimir answers, in Russian.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing of your concern, Veniamin.”

“Ah, but it is. You’re paying me to nurse you back to health, aren’t you?”

Vladimir scowls at this. “I’m not paying you.”

“You are now.”

“You owed me a favor,” Vladimir hisses into the receiver.

“And I fulfilled it. Your favor didn’t include constantly checking up on you _after_ I brought you back from your poor condition. If you keep running around, your stitches won’t heal correctly.”

“I’m not running around. I’m not an idiot.”

“Then why aren’t you back in your safehouse? _Resting_ like I told you. Like you’re paying me to tell you.”

“I’m not paying you.”

“Sure,” Veniamin scoffs and hangs up.

“Fucking doctor,” Vladimir mutters. He pockets his phone and lifts the back of his jacket up for his gun, checking that the safety is on. A girl steps out of the back door of the building on his left, lugging a large garbage bag with her.

Vladimir raises his gun, and strides over to her until he’s only a few feet away. He switches to English. “You. Stop.”

The girl, who’s just thrown the bag into the dumpster, freezes. Vladimir hopes she doesn’t pass out right then and there.

“Turn around slowly,” he orders firmly. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The girl turns and starts to shake when she sees the gun.

“I need you to scream,” Vladimir tells her. “Scream, call out for help.”

“W-what?” Even the girl’s voice is trembling.

“Shout.”

“B-but,” the girl pauses, eyes wide as ever, “you’ll shoot me. If I call for h-help.”

Vladimir stifles a frustrated sigh. He should have thought this through, Anatoly would have had a better approach. He raises both of his hands, pointing the gun upwards.

“No, I’m not,” he bends down, slowly putting the gun on the ground. “I need you to get someone’s attention.”

The girl doesn’t say anything. She takes a step back, as if she were to run away.

“Shit,” Vladimir curses, switching back to Russian in that second, as he sees the girl move to retreat. He hastily steps towards the girl.

Vladimir approaching must have caused the girl to panic, because the next thing she did was scream. “Help! Someone’s attacking me!”

A loud thud behind Vladimir. That’s got to be Daredevil. He looks at the girl, waving his hand dismissively at her. “Run! Go home!”

The girl doesn’t waste a single second and bolts. Vladimir picks up his gun and tucks it back underneath his jacket. He turns around, and of course, the vigilante has chosen to land on his car rather than the dumpster next to it.

“Vladimir.”

He examines the man’s new body armor, impressed. “New suit. Looks good.”

Daredevil’s voice is firm. “I told you what would happen if I ever saw you again.”

Vladimir shrugs. “You told me you wouldn’t be civil if you caught me kidnapping people again. I was not kidnapping the girl, I was trying to get your attention. You also left me with the bill for that shit coffee, you dick.”

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Daredevil was beginning to sound exasperated. He could work with that. Exasperated was better than angry and violent.

“I want,” Vladimir starts, grimacing briefly as he realizes that Daredevil has _dented_ the hood of his car, “your contact.”

“You terrorized an innocent girl because you want my phone number?” The vigilante asks, incredulous. It was too dark for Vladimir to tell if he was smirking or scowling.

“Your burner phone. I saw you had one when we were trapped after the explosion.” Vladimir bites out, rolling his eyes.

“Where are you going with this?” Daredevil’s tone is slightly impatient.

“Fisk will not stay in jail forever. Men like us, animals, we all escape sooner or later.”

“I’ll make sure Fisk stays where he belongs.” Daredevil says, voice even and calculating. The man must think he’s working with Fisk again. There goes his attempt to build an alliance.

“That man belongs in hell.” Vladimir’s fists ball up just thinking about what Fisk did to Anatoly. “For what he’s taken from people.”

“Then so do you.”

Shit, he’s got him there. 

“You’re not going to kill me, I know that already,” he counters, smirking.

Daredevil sighs, reaches somewhere into his suit — it’s too dark to tell where — and produces a cheap flip phone. He tosses it to Vladimir. “The number’s in there. Put it in your phone.”

Vladimir does so and tosses the burner back.

“You didn’t say why you needed it,” Daredevil says.

“Future use,” Vladimir shrugs vaguely.

The vigilante stiffens. He’s doing that strange thing he did in the warehouse — like he knows something’s happening. He bounds off Vladimir’s car and hoists himself up and over a fire escape, disappearing over the building.

“You dented my car, mudak!” Vladimir shouts after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, I plan to show how Vlad got out alive in episode 6 at some point in this fic. Just not yet!
> 
> "Mudak" is something I remember Anatoly calling Matt in the first few episodes. I googled it and it means an insult like 'asshole'. If any Russian speaks know if I'm using it wrong feel free to tell me and I'll find a way around that!
> 
> Thanks for reading guys! (I didn't expect that much love from you all)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “After all, you are like smoke. It is hard to get hold of you.”

“Jesus, Matt. Your phone’s been buzzing like crazy.”

“You can hear that?” 

“Dude, I’m sitting right next to you. In fact, we may be sitting a little too close, because every time that thing goes off in your pocket, I can actually _feel it_.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Okay fine, your phone’s only buzzed, like, three times, but — oh, hear that? Of course you do. There it goes again!”

“Give it a rest, Foggy,” Matt sighs, re-skimming his fingers over the braille copies on the details of their current case. How many times has he tried to go through these things? Four? Five? Concentration is really escaping him tonight. Maybe it’s because —

“Wait a damn second! You can’t read!” Foggy. Definitely because of Foggy.

“Oh! I’m blind! Whatever will I do!” Matt mocks. “No shit, Foggy.”

“Cut it out,” Foggy retorts, shifting in his chair. It scrapes against the floor and Matt can hear him turning the chair to face him. “That’s your Daredevil phone going nuts, isn’t it?”

Matt faces Foggy in a way that would be a stare-down if he could see.

“Don’t give me that look. Claire’s sending you text messages! You’re pissed because you can’t read them!” Foggy exclaims. Loudly. Thank God Karen left the office early, Matt and Foggy have yet to tell her about his late night vigilante activities. Whenever he and Foggy work late, Foggy tends to project his voice — possibly to help keep both of them awake.

“I don’t think it’s Claire,” Matt sighs tiredly, fishing the burner out of his pocket and putting it on the table. “I gave someone else the number for this. I don’t think they know that I’m blind.”

“No way, shouldn’t you be more careful than that?” The disapproval and worry certainly audible in Foggy’s voice. “You can’t go giving your number to every hot nurse that fishes you out of the streets.”

“ _He_ made a good point,” Matt shrugs, “and he’s not a nurse. This guy is — ah, he’s — he’s certainly someone I’d be more comfortable keeping tabs on.”

“Why? Was he involved with Fisk?”

“… He worked for him. More or less.”

“Matt, what the hell. Why is this guy running loose?”

“Well, he did try to kill Fisk in the end.”

“Oh, did he?”

“And then Fisk tried to blow him up. He’s supposed to be dead now.”

“Blew him up. Huh, okay, you’re in contact with the Russians?” Foggy practically shouts that last part into his ear. Matt grimaces in his chair. He should have known Foggy would be very vocal on this topic.

“One Russian. Singular. The rest of them are dead.”

“Is it those two guys Ben had up on his conspiracy board?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Matt quips.

Foggy shakes his head exasperatedly. “Is it that, uh, Anatoly guy? Or Vladimir?”

“Vladimir, but does it matter?”

“Matt. _It matters_. Those two ran a human-trafficking ring and you’re just gonna let them walk?” Foggy sputters angrily. He has a point there.

“I need more eyes and ears,” Matt mutters. He leans forward in his chair and rubs his face out of frustration and exhaustion. “When we were… When we were hiding in that warehouse while he was bleeding half to death, the guy was laughing at me. Not literally, I mean, but it was there I realized the amount of inside knowledge I had was pathetic. This guy — _Vladimir_ — he’s an inside man. Fisk’s crime ring has dissolved, but there’s still a lot to pick up from. If Vladimir’s the guy I think he is, he’s gonna squeeze his way in there, then he’s going to be my correspondent. Whether he likes it or not.”

Foggy picks up the phone from the table. “Well, your correspondent seems to have some very valuable information.”

“What do the texts say?”

Foggy clears his throat and straightens up in his chair. “First text: mudak. Second text: mudak. Third text, oh this one’s in caps: MUDAK. Fourth text: this makes us allies now.”

“Christ,” Matt mutters into his hands. He gestures to Foggy for the phone. His best friends scoffs and hands it over.

“I’m guessing ‘mudak’ is some Russian word,” Foggy ponders, “why didn’t I learn Russian instead?”

Matt presses the call button. Vladimir picks up after the sixth ring.

“So this is a real phone number after all,” greets a familiar accent.

“Do not send me text messages,” Matt begins, “if it’s important, you call.”

“No time for pleasantries, I see.”

“We are _not_ allies. What was so important that you needed my attention?”

“Nothing,” Vladimir replies innocently. Matt stifles a groan of annoyance.

“So, what, you were just texting me for the hell of it?” Matt retorts. Foggy, who’s still sitting next to him barks out a cruel laugh. Matt shoots him a ‘shut up’ face. Foggy waves his hand dismissively, but quiets down.

“I wanted to see if you trusted me enough to give me a real phone number,” Vladimir replies, “After all, you are like smoke. It is hard to get hold of you.”

“You didn’t seem to have any difficulty finding me in the last two days.” Matt retorts.

“ _Oh_ ,” Foggy whispers, slightly surprised.

“Maybe I’m getting better at it,” he hears something like victory in Vladimir’s voice.

“Don’t come looking for me,” Matt says sternly into the receiver and hangs up before Vladimir can say anything to get on his nerves.

“I get it now.” Foggy says, voice sounding rather sly.

“What?” Matt scowls. 

Foggy slides some papers from the desk into his hands and scoots out of his chair. “I’m gonna go make copies of these.”

“Foggy, _what,_ ” Matt demands. He hears the other man practically skip out of the room. “Foggy!”

Foggy doesn’t grace him with a reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got a little bit of Foggy in the mix now! This guy knows what's up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why this man refuses guns, he will never know.

The unbearable pain in his side told Vladimir that things were going south. Not that he didn’t know that already. Getting beaten by a flurry of crowbars and fists is quite the indicator of how well a meeting is going.

“You think you’re our fucking boss?” One of them shouts into his ringing ears.

Of course this would happen when he tries to cut a deal with Americans.

He has to get out of this. His nearly-healed bullet wound is no longer nearly-healed. He throws a punch into nowhere, fists moving too sluggishly to actually reach a target. A crowbar slams into his face, his mind begins jolting in and out of blackness.

Vladimir lets out a roar and manages to kick someone in the groin — someone on his right — and they groan as they slump on the ground. He can’t see much, his eye may be swollen, but he knows  that this is where he makes his exit.

He breaks right, sprinting towards the exit of the warehouse. Only, he can’t seem to run. He at least gets several feet away when his bruised legs give way. He crumples onto the cold cement, slippery with his own blood and spit.

“Need a hand?” He hears over his ragged breathing. He cranes his neck to see Daredevil looking down at him, little sticks at the ready.

“It’s that vigilante!” One of the assholes behind him exclaim. He turns around — painfully — to see them pulling out their guns. The one standing in front of all the others points raises his gun at Daredevil. “We got more guys upstairs. You definitely don’t want to come at us.”

“You’re dead now, cowards,” Vladimir spits at them in Russian. He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by his own watery coughs. This was not good.

Daredevil addresses the one with the gun. “You’re right. I’m not here to fight you. Not today.”

The masked man swiftly throws one of his sticks to the side, in that split second Vladimir hears a faint _thud_ followed by the overhead lights fading to black. He sees nothing.

Stray gunfire is heard along with confused shouting. Vladimir feels himself get pulled up and thrown over a shoulder. He cries out in pain and begins to thrash. For a moment he’s grateful that it is pitch black — the thrashing must make him look like a pathetic child.

“Stop moving,” growls Daredevil, the arm around Vladimir’s legs tightens. Suddenly, he can see again. They’ve made it out of the warehouse. The masked man drops Vladimir off his shoulder and rests him against a parked car. “Where can you go to get patched up?”

“Oh, so you’re helping me?” Vladimir asks, switching back to English. Daredevil says nothing, just stares at him. A stare sightless enough to send render him uncomfortable. He coughs and pats the car he’s been resting against. “Get the drivers’ seat open. I will do the rest.”

The man nods wordlessly and punches the window to pieces. He sticks his arm inside and unlocks the door.

With some assistance of the masked man, Vladimir hobbles his way into the car and he hot-wires it. The engine starts and Vladimir feels his night getting easier. He straightens up in his shirt and stifles a cry of pain when he feels his wound continue to open itself.

He blinks hard, his mind’s beginning to move slower. His ears are still ringing. Daredevil knocks on the window frame, where small remnants of the broken window still remain. “Vladimir. Go.”

He won’t say thank you. He won’t. Instead, Vladimir asks, “Are you going back in there?”

Daredevil snorts and steps away from the car, but still facing him. Vladimir takes this as his cue to start driving out.

And of course, he crashes into the other parked car after driving a few feet.

“Shit,” Russian hissing through his teeth. He lulls his head to the side, too exhausted to even sit up straight. Suddenly, Daredevil’s at the broken window again. Vladimir squints at him. “I thought you were going back inside.”

“Dammit,” the man kicks the car door in frustration, “you’re concussed. You’re not driving anywhere.”

“Then get in the car,” Vladimir murmurs, swinging his head slightly to look at him. “Goddammit, I can’t do all the work around here.”

“Vladimir, hey, stay sharp,” Daredevil reaches into the car to pat his face slightly. He can feel himself drifting off. “Vladimir. I need you to speak English. Can you do that?”

So he’s been speaking in Russian. It’s hard for him to concentrate on languages at the moment. He speaks again, in English this time. “I said drive me out of here.”

Daredevil is silent for a moment. “It’s not a good idea for me to try to drive in a noisy city full of jay walkers.”

“Just take us to some alley at least.”

“No. Shit, your friends are coming out of the warehouse.” Daredevil breathes out. “I can’t drive you. We’ll have to think of something else.”

“Why not?” Vladimir snaps. The world around him is getting blurrier. This asshole can’t follow the easiest of escape plans? Why doesn’t he just get in the car? He moves his hands to cup his wound. That’s a lot of blood. He’s had worse. “Who cares if you’re a shit driver?”

“It’s not that,” Daredevil backs away from the car and holds his remaining fighting stick in a defensive position. Why this man refuses guns, he will never know.

“What is it then?”

“I’m — _dammit_ — I’m blind.” And with that the other man takes off, running towards the gunfire behind Vladimir.

Vladimir blinks, wondering if it’s his concussion or if the vigilante just said he was _blind_ , and feels his eyes close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOMP, there it is. I wonder if Vlad heard him right.
> 
> Finals, are killin'. If there are mistakes, sorry guys. I didn't get to proofread this as thoroughly as I hoped.
> 
> Also big thank you to all the kind comments and kudos this has gotten! I never thought I'd get this kind of response!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re just standing there. Why aren’t you burning me with some fucking flare?”

Vladimir’s eyes fly open, only to snap shut in pain. His head throbs, he’s thankful for the quiet. Where is he? Surely not in the car he was in a moment ago.

The absolute silence assaults him. He stiffens. It’s too quiet. Where is all the gunfire? Moments ago the vigilante was with him —

Moments ago… Moments ago or hours ago? _Days_ ago, even? How long has he been out for? He tries to sit up, only to groan in pain and collapse back onto the couch. He’s lying in a couch. He opens his eyes again — slowly this time — and assess the area blearily. A very dark room — bare, and only lit by the lights from buildings beyond the windows. Somebody’s living room, he suspects. Bare, so very bare. He’s about to make another attempt at sitting up when he hears a foreign noise behind the couch. Someone else is here with him.

“Veniamin,” he croaks, unsurprised by the hoarseness of his voice. More noise behind the couch, something like a bottle behind set down. His asshole doctor is going to charge him for this, he knows it. He must have called him before losing consciousness, his doctor must have picked him up —

“Try again,” a familiar, low voice says. Despite not being his doctor, Vladimir feels himself relax — slightly, only slightly — once realizing the masked man is in his presence. Right, he was with him at the fight, obviously the masked man had been the one to get him out.

“Mudak,” the nickname easily rolls off Vladimir’s tongue, his response nothing but recognition. “You —“

“— saved your ass, apparently.”

“Where have you taken me?” Vladimir demands, albeit weakly. He rolls his eyes, he sounded so tired it was pathetic.

“My apartment,” the low voice replies and Vladimir finds himself relaxing at this. “you lost consciousness in the car.”

“No shit.”

“Do you remember anything before that?” He hears the masked man walk, Vladimir cranes his neck to see him as he walks to the front of the couch, still amor-clad with a beer bottle in hand. His helmet was off. “Like why you were there or how you got injured or —“

“— or you saying you are blind?” Vladimir fires at the man. The other man sighs, Vladimir narrows his eyes. It’s too dark in this damn apartment. He reprimands himself silently for not figuring it out sooner. He merely thought the man was an idiot who tried to see through a mask while he fought. He assumed that when he saw him in the diner the cane was for — no. The man had a cane with him and Vladimir did not even stop to think that the man was blind. But how could he be? The man moves like he sees everything. He fights like he can see every punch coming at him. “How are you blind, anyway? It must be some kind of ruse — making everyone think you’re less than you are.”

“I’m blind, but that doesn’t stop me. That’s all I’m going to say,” The man bites out, moving to take a swig of his beer.

“Lies, your sight —“ Vladimir sneers in Russian, faltering when he realizes the man won’t understand him and repeats in English, “ — You’re lying. Your eyes work fine, do they not? If I threw something at you, you would catch it.”

“My eyes are not your problem. Your problems right now are your injuries.” The vigilante replies stiffly. Okay, he won’t push. For now.

“It’s nothing,” Vladimir grunts, moving to sit up again. The agony is immediate. He hisses a string of swears rather ungracefully.

“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“You’re just standing there. Why aren’t you burning me with some fucking flare?”

“I called a professional to look at you. She’s on her way now, though,” Stark shadows are the only things clear on the man’s face in the darkness of the room, but Vladimir swears the man is smirking at him, “I doubt she’ll want to help you. I’m going to have to find a way to convince her.”

Vladimir merely grunts, hiding the fact that he feels slightly overwhelmed.

Why is Daredevil helping him? He suppresses a snort. If this man was going to continue appearing in his life, there’s something Vladimir wants rectified.

“What is your name?” He blurts, voice still as croaky as ever from dehydration. It’s ridiculous referring to him as _Daredevil_ in his head.

There’s a long pause, and then, stiffly, “Matthew.”

He scoffs in return, “Like the saint?”

“I didn’t choose to be the devil of hell’s kitchen.”

“The irony is pathetic.”

Silence again.

Vladimir entertains the thought of this being a progressive moment between the two of them. He wonders if Darede — _Matthew_ — can see his miserable smirk. The man’s “blindness” is an enigma. Despite lying on a couch feeling pain pulsing through his body, waiting for someone who _might not even help him_ to arrive, he relishes in the fact that he’s made it through the night with at least _one_ victory.

“Matthew,” he says, merely testing the name on his tongue. He fixes the man with a look of curiosity. “Why did you trust me with this?”

Matthew doesn’t speak right away. Instead, Vladimir watches Matthew’s silhouette as he downs the rest of his beer. The armored man, sans helmet, sighs and sets his empty bottle down on what looks to be remnants of a coffee table.

“You’ve already seen my appearance in the day, you’re in my home, I don’t think there’s anymore harm I can do by telling you my name.”

“I could tell someone,” he suggests.

“You’re lying,” Matthew replies, clipped and matter-of-fact. Vladimir snorts.

Suddenly, Matthew is stalking away, towards the door and out of Vladimir’s sight. He cranes his neck further, but it’s too painful to stay in that position. Defeated, Vladimir rests his head back on the soft material of the couch.

“Claire,” he hears Matthew say. If Vladimir hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed the gentle tone laced in the man’s voice. “Thank you for coming.”

“Hmm, I was going to knock on your door,” He hears a soft, joking voice reply. The exchange is so soft and quiet enough to make Vladimir strain his ears to listen. “But I guess you already knew I was there.”

The next few words between the two are incoherent, Vladimir can only make out pleasant tones. Then the voice get closer, they’re moving from the door.

A dark haired woman with striking cheekbones comes into view, Matthew along side her with his hand on the small of her back.

“So who’s the unlucky man you’ve rescued tonight?”

Matthew becomes slightly flustered. “Um, well, you know him.”

“Do I?” She says, eyeing Vladimir warily.

“His name is Vladimir.” Matt says slowly, as if he didn’t want to tell her at all.

Immediately, Claire narrows her eyes at him and then turns to Matthew, who shifts uncomfortably. “No.”

“Claire —“

“Not a damn chance.” She says firmly, and marches for the door. 

Matthew immediately follows her, protesting lightly. They disappear from view again.

Vladimir lies limp on the couch, not bothering to listen to their quiet argument. He tries to ignore the fact that he feels like a petulant child, waiting for someone to come spoon-feed him. This useless feeling is unbearable. Anatoly is probably laughing at him from his grave.

Not wanting to lie still any longer, he shuts his eyes tight and tries to ignore the pain as he moves to sit up. Suddenly, there’s a hand firmly pushing him back down by the shoulder. His eyes fly open to see a stern and unhappy Claire.

“I’m going to patch you up,” she bites out, eyes burning with disdain, “and it’s going to hurt whether you like it or not. You’re lucky Matt’s on your side.”

“Thank you, Claire,” Matthew says, “it’s good to know I didn’t carry him all the way here for nothing.”

The only thing left for Vladimir to do now is brace himself as Claire unzips her bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG!! I have no excuse. (but hey, finals are over so I can update sooner!)
> 
> It's been a while since I've gotten into the mindset of writing these two. Hope I'm not as rusty as I think I am.
> 
> Talk to you all in the comments :)


End file.
